


lost the manual somewhere

by Elenothar



Category: Mission: Impossible (Movies), Mission: Impossible - Ghost Protocol (2011)
Genre: Brandt and Benji are BFFs, Brandt is the master of silent communication, Getting Together, M/M, SPOILERS FOR ROGUE NATION
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-02
Updated: 2015-09-02
Packaged: 2018-04-18 16:14:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4712339
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elenothar/pseuds/Elenothar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five times Benji realises how much stress Brandt is under and one time Ethan does.</p>
            </blockquote>





	lost the manual somewhere

**Author's Note:**

> Written because I wanted more Brandt/Benji interaction in the movie, aka them hanging out together a lot because their day job is sucky.
> 
> Here be spoilers for Rogue Nation!

 

-

1.

 

It’s been two weeks since the dissolution of the IMF and Benji is already bored out of his bloody _mind_. He drives in to work in the morning, sifts through mountains upon mountains of data from nine to five, drives back home and spends the rest of the evening alone in his apartment, glumly remembering better times. He misses the craziness that was the IMF, the thrill of being a field agent and working with Ethan Hunt. He misses having something more meaningful to do than looking through the technological equivalent of what comes out of the CIA’s HQs’ toilets.

He misses his team.

Not only Ethan, who, against all expectations, has become his friend over the last year, but also Jane even though she left them, and Brandt, who’s at the CIA but still couldn’t be further away considering how the both of them are being watched constantly. Not to mention that the poor guy looks more and more run down every time Benji manages to catch a glimpse of him.

It’s not like they used to hang out all the time, but there’s something to be said for knowing that there’re people only a phone call away who’d do anything for you, even the impossible.

As if on cue, the doorbell rings.

Which is odd, because Benji doesn’t _get_ visitors. The continuing racket coming from the doorbell provides a convincingly loud argument to the contrary, so Benji drags himself over to his apartment door, wondering whether he should maybe not be wearing Star Wars pyjamas. Then he decides that whoever’s bothering him at 9pm on a Friday can deal with him wearing whatever the fuck he wants.

He peers through the peephole first – some habits just never get broken, even if the most exciting thing to have happened in one’s life in recent weeks was a wrongly delivered pizza – and exhales in surprise when he sees William Brandt peer right back at him.

“Is this wise?” Benji asks, never mind that he’s already opening the door wide enough to let Brandt through.

“I don’t give a shit.”

Benji starts, both at how rough Brandt’s voice sounds – as if gravel and sleep-deprivation had got together for an illegitimate child – and the phrasing. Brandt doesn’t actually swear much, a bit of a rarity in field agents but just one more thing that makes him _Brandt_ , and he’s always always always ridiculously careful. Ethan used to bitch about how Brandt never let him go off half-cocked anymore, wanting to go through every possibility first and make sure they have a dozen back-up plans ready for the eventuality that the main plan goes pear-shaped – which it inevitably did because it involved Ethan Hunt and no plan ever works when that man is around.

Benji swallows past the sudden lump in his throat. He supposes it’s a bit late to ask now, but –  “Are you sure?”

Brandt looks at him with faintly red-rimmed eyes and says flatly, “Benji, if I couldn’t have looked forward to seeing a friendly face later I would probably have punched Hunley _in the face_ and that really wouldn’t have helped matters.”

Benji winces. “Point taken. Make yourself at home then. I could make some tea?”

The offer is automatic, a remnant of his British upbringing which they all used to laugh about on missions when Benji went around trying to cheer everyone up with a hug in a cup.

Brandt doesn’t laugh this time, just says, low and weary, “A cup of tea would be great, actually. Thanks, Benji.”

Benji grins, one of his wide ones that usually cheers people right up, hands already busy with the familiar ritual of prepping the kettle and hunting for the right kind of tea for the occasion. “Don’t thank me, I’ve waited _years_ to finally have someone agree to drinking tea without me all but shoving it under their noses.”

Brandt’s expression warms, just for a moment, before weariness drapes back over his features like a shroud. He rubs at his eyes. “I’m sorry for just barging in here, Benji, I just… Well, as I said, a friendly face.” He falls silent, smiling wanly.

“I miss it too,” Benji says quietly. “The team. The camaraderie. The CIA sucks.”

That at least startles a choked laugh out of Brandt. “That’s one way to put it. Sometimes I really wish I’d resigned, like Luther and Jane.”

Benji hands him a gently steaming cup of Earl Grey. “Why didn’t you?”

Brandt shrugs, staring down at the liquid. “Same reason you didn’t. To help Ethan.”

Benji nods, cradling his own cup. He’d thought as much, but it feels good to hear Brandt say it out loud. Or perhaps it’s simply the implication that Benji isn’t alone that’s so comforting.

“So what happened today that made you come here?”

Brandt takes a sip of his tea, and then makes a frankly adorable scrunched up face when it scalds his tongue. “It’s not so much today specifically. It’s just all been building up. If I hear Hunley say one more word about Ethan’s ‘delusions’, I’m gonna – ”

Brandt clenches his teeth, trapping acidic words behind an ivory wall, his grip on the cup white-knuckled.

“I’m sorry,” Benji says quietly because there’s nothing else he can do. “I may be bored out of my mind, but at least I don’t have to listen to that kind of bullshit and pretend it doesn’t get to me.”

Brandt snorts lightly. “It’s not a competition, Benji.”

“Well, if it were one you’d be winning.”

“Do I get a prize at least? Or is this one of those cheapskate competitions?” Brandt looks faintly amused now, which at least is better than the ten shades of weary he’d looked like before.

Benji nods solemnly. “You’ll get a fridge magnet that says ‘Winner of the Worst Job Competition at the fucking CIA’.”

Brandt considers this for a moment. “It’d make a good conversation starter at least.”

“Yeah, until you told them that you really aren’t allowed to talk about any aspects of your job with civilians.”

“Good point,” Brandt sighs. “I’ll pass. Thanks for reminding me why we don’t have normal human relationships, Benji.”

“Hey, what am I? Chopped liver?”

“Now that you mention it, there’s a certain resemblance,” Brandt mutters, squinting theatrically, and suddenly Benji is grinning in between hiccups as his last sip of tea goes down the wrong pipe. Brandt takes one look at him and follows suit.

“You know what,” he says, once they’ve both calmed enough not to have to worry about sloshing scalding liquid all over themselves, “this is better than any kind of reality TV show.”

Benji grins. “I’ll add it to the list of possible epitaphs.”

 

2.

 

Evenings at Benji’s apartment become a thing. Neither of them acknowledge out loud just how much they need this stress-free time away from both the CIA’s machinations and the unrelenting hunt for Ethan, but it’s there in the way they start leaning against each other on the sofa when watching movies, in how Brandt starts bringing Benji’s favourite snacks and Benji stacks up on Brandt’s favourite beer.

(Budweiser. The man has _no_ taste.)

They’re ostensibly watching one of the new Star Trek movies and Brandt is perhaps a little bit drunk, but his eyes are steady when he offers, out of the blue, “I should teach you how to lie on a polygraph.”

In the background, Captain Pike has just started screaming. As metaphors go, Benji doesn’t particularly like that one.

“It’s easy, really, once you know how,” Brandt says, the faintest slurring mashing his vowels into less recognisable shapes. “All high level analysts are taught how to do it, since the lot of us know too much sensitive… stuff.”

Benji frowns at him. He may be a little bit buzzed himself. “Why not teach field agents?”

Brandt shrugs. “Not that much you can get out of field agents, and we all have to go through TRT anyway.”

Benji doesn’t mind letting Brandt see his reflexive wince. Torture Resistance Training was by far the lowest point in his struggle to become a field agent, and that includes only barely scraping by in hand to hand combat (and all the bruises _that_ entailed). He suddenly wonders how many people like Brandt there are, who’ve both been field agents and high level analysts and had to go through both training courses, each brutal in their own ways.

“Anyway, ‘s not the point.” Brandt waves his bottle of beer around vaguely. “They’ve still got no clue where Ethan is an’ Hunley’s making noise about finding his ‘accomplices’.”

“You think that means me?” Benji asks, rousing himself to some semblance of concentration.

Brandt shrugs, eyes suddenly sharper as if his drunkenness was only a shield to be discarded at will. “Well, I’ve already lied about my involvement on six different polygraph tests and either they’re starting to believe me or Hunley thinks it’ll be easier to just keep me under observation, since he hardly lets me leave his side anyway. You’re the next best candidate.”

Benji shudders. At least he gets to be left alone in the tech department, but Brandt is stuck at Hunley’s side or in mission control all the time. People _watch_ _him_ all the time.

“Why doesn’t he just _fire_ us?” It comes out a bit more petulant than intended, but Brandt doesn’t seem to mind.

“Because we’re both damn good at our jobs, and he doesn’t have proof anyway.” He grins darkly, and though there’s nothing nice about the expression Benji feels comforted nonetheless. “Besides, just imagine how much havoc we could cause if we _weren’t_ under his thumb.”

Benji imagines that for a moment. Then he nods solemnly. “We’d be badass.”

“Yes, we would,” Brandt agrees, and Benji doesn’t think he imagines the wistfulness resonating in his voice.  It hadn’t even occurred to him before that Brandt might miss field work too.

Then Brandt shakes himself, and takes another pull from his beer bottle. “So, do you want to learn?”

“Course,” Benji says. “Otherwise it’d get fair awkward if they ask where my loyalties lie.”

Brandt’s face darkens. “Not that awkward, Benji, believe me,” he murmurs and proceeds to instruct him in the art of lying to a machine built to detect lies. Misdirection and evasion are the watchwords, but because any interrogator worth their salt will at some point press the issue, one, most important trick remains: regulating one’s physical responses to lies. One’s heart cannot race, no sweat can appear on one’s brow, one’s breathing needs to remain regular, as does one’s blood pressure.

 _Control your body_ , Brandt says, _and they will never know you’re lying._

A week later, Benji makes it through his first polygraph sitting without spilling any beans. Brandt, he realises later when the other man gives him a small smile with satisfaction curling around the edges, had been loitering on the other side of the glass doors the whole time.

It’s a comforting thought.

 

3.

 

Brandt is curled up next to him on Benji’s ratty old sofa, looking a little hazy after yesterday’s all-nighter in mission control. He’s probably letting most of Benji’s chatter roll right off him, but proves he’s paying attention by immediately noticing when Benji switches to a serious topic.

“Maybe we should have some kind of code action in case Ethan contacts either of us.”

Brandt sighs, shifting around a little so that his legs could hang of the edge of the sofa, which Benji appreciates because that means his sock-clad toes will stop poking Benji’s ribs. “If Ethan’s going to contact anyone it’s going to be you, Benji.”

“What? Why?”

There’s something pinched in Brandt’s expression he doesn’t like at all.

“Because he can be more assured of your loyalty than of mine. Aside from the fact that I spent nearly all my time with Hunley, he’s known you longer and you’re his friend.”

“But you’re his friend too!” Benji squawks, too indignant on Brandt’s behalf to even register the usual warm rush he gets from someone labelling him Ethan Hunt’s friend.

Brandt hesitates a moment too long. “It’s not the same, Benji,” he says quietly, almost gently. “We were getting there, I think, but then this mess happened and well” – he shrugs, face studiously blank – “time ran out.”

Benji can’t quite find his tongue, puzzling through all Brandt’s said and _not_ said. He’s seen the two interact, on missions and outside of missions and they’d always seemed companionable, and after their admittedly somewhat rocky start while saving the word from Hendricks, the growing warmth the team shared had included them too. Yes, Brandt had sometimes seemed sad when Ethan wasn’t looking, and maybe Ethan hadn’t been looking all that much, but –

And suddenly everything clicks.

“You’re in love with Ethan.”

Benji half expects Brandt to deny it, but he only looks tired. “Please keep that to yourself, Benji. I’ve got enough problems as it is.”

Benji makes sure to meet Brandt’s gaze when he nods, face as serious as it ever gets, and sees Brandt’s shoulders relax.

Feeling daring, he ventures, “Are you sure it’s got to be a problem?”

Immediately Brandt goes back to all but radiating tension, and Benji almost regrets asking the question at all.

“Ethan doesn’t know,” Brandt says, voice carefully even. There’s a terrible dullness in his eyes. “Ethan is the best agent the IMF has ever had and _he doesn’t know_.”

“Ah,” is all Benji can think to say. He does see what Brandt means – Ethan _could_ know, especially if Benji, who’s never been the best judge of human interaction, was able to figure it out. That he doesn’t, is telling all in itself.

“Yes _ah_ ,” Brandt agrees, and for a moment he looks like he wants nothing more than to disappear into the sofa cushions. “Look, don’t worry about it, alright? I’ve been coping just fine for the last year, and we’ve all got more important things to worry about.” His lips tilt in a lop-sided smile. “ _Especially_ Ethan.”

“If that’s what you want,” Benji says somewhat dubiously, but Brandt catches his gaze and holds it, something pleading in his eyes. “It is.”

Benji nods, though it sits heavily in his stomach. The truth is, there’s nothing he can do, except perhaps keep an especially close watch on Brandt’s moods, but he’s already doing that anyway. He might feel bad about it if he weren’t so sure that Brandt is doing the same thing for him. There’re only the two of them now to look out for each other, and Benji doubts Brandt is any less determined to not fuck that up than he is.

They sit in silence for a while.

“So, a code action?” Benji pipes up.

Brandt groans, muttering something dire about sleep and badgering techies, but he agrees readily enough to Benji’s suggestion – even if he doesn’t look at all convinced that the code will ever be used.

It takes a month for the chance to prove him wrong to arrive.

No matter what Brandt seems to think, Benji is his friend and trusts him, and when tickets to the opera in Vienna land on his desk, he doesn’t hesitate to drop off the package containing the newest Star Trek DVD and Brandt’s address in black ink on his way to the airport.

 

4.

 

It’s been a bit of a crazy day, and that being stuck in an overturned car with his face mashed into an airbag isn’t the craziest part of it goes to show just how much crazy there is in Benji’s life is right now. All right, so maybe he’s overusing the word ‘crazy’ a bit, but he’s sure most people would agree that the use is perfectly justified.

Ethan – being his usual crazy self – has already pulled a runner, but Benji is feeling quiet comfortable not moving and thus avoiding reminding his poor body just how much it should be complaining about its mistreatment.

At least there’s a silver lining in the form of Brandt’s face appearing in his small field of view

“Benji? Are you all right? Are you wounded?”

It takes a moment for the ringing in his head to die down enough to parse the words coming out of Brandt’s mouth at high speed, which only causes Brandt to look even _more_ worried, until Benji manages to croak, “I’m fine. Just stuck.”

Brandt almost deflates in relief. “We can help with that, right Luther?”

Luther – and since when is Luther here? – grumbles something indistinct, but between the two of them it only takes a couple of minutes before Benji is blinking dazedly into direct sunlight, legs a little wobbly.

“Well, that’s one thing off the bucket list,” he ventures. “Be in a car crash with Ethan Hunt, because Ethan insisted on driving not five minutes after technically being dead.”

Brandt, who is not so subtly checking Benji over for injuries despite Benji’s assurances that he’s – mostly – fine, does not look amused. In fact, his face could be described as chalky, now that Benji thinks about it.

“We saw the car flip,” Brandt says, eyes worryingly vacant, and Benji wants to kick himself for mentioning the whole ‘technically dead’ thing because that probably didn’t help at all.

Luther, in an unprecedented display of tact, ambles off to give them some room.

Benji swallows past a throat full of grit and dust. “Oh, right of course, _Ethan_ –”

He doesn’t even want to contemplate what that would feel like, but Brandt interrupts him, voice a quiet snap. “Not just Ethan, Benji, _both of you_.”

For the first time Benji takes some time to look at Brandt, _really_ look at him and what he sees is someone wound so tight he’s not quite sure how Brandt isn’t imploding right now.

“I’m fine, Brandt,” he says with as much cheer as he can muster. He waggles his arms around. “See? Everything still in working order.”

“It better be, after I spent so much time chasing after you two,” Brandt mutters, sounding more like his usual self. “Who wants to bet against Ethan already having managed to crash his bike?”

“Not me, mate. He’s _definitely_ crashed the bike by now.”

Brandt’s lips quirk. “Did you set some kind of rendezvous point?”

“Found a promising looking shack,” Benji nods.

Brandt scowls. “I don’t like that word. That word reminds me of Egypt and I do _not_ want to be reminded of Egypt.”

“Um, it’s a lovely little ground-floor apartment?”

Brandt sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. Luther, apparently having decided they’d had enough time for their heart-to-heart, strolls back towards them. Something complicated passes between him and Brandt – a lot of communication for no words and only a few hand gestures – causing Benji’s eyebrows to ride up in curiosity, then Brandt nods.

“Want to hitch a ride in _our_ beautiful all-terrain vehicle?”

Yeah, Benji’s definitely missed something here.

 

5.

 

Brandt is the one who picks Benji up as he stumbles from the pier, hands shaking and blood rushing in his ears. One moment he’s alone among the tourists and party-goers, then Brandt is at his side with such quiet swiftness that Benji’s would’ve freaked if he weren’t quite so tired, or quite so used to Brandt’s presence.

“Come on, Benji, it’s all right, I’ve got you,” Brandt murmurs, hand steady and warm on his arm as he leads him towards a nondescript car parked in the nearest side street.

Benji lets himself be gently pushed into the front seat. His brain is still stuck somewhere between _oh God I’m strapped to a bomb_ and _oh God I’m going to blow up now_ and then there’d been Ethan and he’d looked so calm and yet so angry and Benji had kept saying those words and now Ethan was all alone –

“What about Ethan?” Benji’s voice hits a frantic pitch and he has to take a breath before going on. “He’s there with _her_ and all those –”

“Ethan’s going to come to us,” Brandt interrupts him calmly, and if Benji didn’t know him quite so well he would miss the tiny lines of tension all around his eyes and mouth and the way his hands are holding onto the steering wheel with an ever so slightly tighter grip than necessary. “He promised.”

Brandt glances at him and Benji nearly says something about paying attention to the road but that’s normal Benji and current Benji is tired, freaked, and doesn’t care all that much about road safety.

“Our priority was getting _you_ out.” Brandt smiles wanly. “You think we’d ambush the Prime Minister for just anyone?”

“You did what?” Benji squawks.

Brandt winces. “I’ll let Ethan explain that part. It was his idea anyway.”

Benji stares at Brandt’s profile for a moment, then gives up. If it was Ethan’s idea he probably doesn’t even want to know. He manages to concentrate on the dark streets gliding by for at least a few seconds before he whispers, “He promised?”

Brandt looks straight ahead, mouth a grim line. “He did. And I’m personally going to kick his arrogant ass if he doesn’t keep it.”

Benji thinks of the quiet devastation he’s seen in Brandt’s eyes far too often lately, of his _friend_ Ethan – not Agent Hunt, not the man who has to save the world – whom he hasn’t seen for months, and says, “If it helps, I’ll be right beside you with the ass-kicking.”

Brandt laughs at that – a tired laugh, but a laugh nonetheless.

 

+1.

 

Feeling sore all over – those goons really weren’t as gentle as they could’ve been – Benji wishes that for once, their van was _comfortable_. Clearly whoever decided on this particular model had mostly kept the transport of their unconscious package in mind and entirely neglected to think of poor, recently kidnapped IMF agents who are now bouncing around in the back, feeling every bump on the road.

As if reading his thoughts, Brandt shuffles a little closer to him, steadying Benji’s right side with a warm arm. Usually Benji would notice Ethan’s eyes narrowing across from them, but he’s too busy being grateful for the added stability. Brandt has finally unwound a little since Ilsa left them, and Benji’s brain is using the more comfortable atmosphere to send increasingly pointed ‘take a nap now’ signals.

Now, Benji hadn’t liked the woman much, _especially_ after she used that defibrillator on him while he was fully conscious (not so much conscious after that), but Brandt seems to have taken an immediate dislike to her, never mind that they hadn’t even exchanged a single word. Master Detective Dunn knows why that is, and he doubts Brandt is lying to himself about the reasons for his dislike, but –

Ethan, on the other hand, is another matter.

The man in question is hard to read as usual when Benji squints across the van, but there’s certainly some sort of deep thinking going on there. Yet even when clearly distracted, Ethan still moves with quiet grace and Benji hardly notices that he’s moving before Ethan has settled down on Benji’s free side.

Bracketed between Brandt _and_ Ethan, Benji has finally stopped bouncing and is feeling, well, quite nice actually. Some of the cold that’s clung to his limbs since the airport is finally thawing, and he closes his eyes with a sigh. It feels like he hasn’t had a nap (or any kind of sleep, really) in _years_.

For a while he drifts happily halfway between awake and asleep and everything feels peaceful… until it doesn’t anymore. Benji first notices the little gusts of air brushing past his face, then the rustling of shifting cloth from both sides, and then sluggishly decides he should probably open his eyes before something else blows up and he isn’t even awake to notice.

The sight that greets him is so unreal that he has to blink a couple of times to make sure his eyes are really open and his sleep-deprived brain isn’t just making this up. Brandt and Ethan, still bracketing him, are both leaning forward, gesticulating around Benji in the middle in a furiously silent exchange that involves a lot of eyebrow and nose twitches and whatever their hands are doing (he’s pretty sure it’s not sign language, unless there’s a dialect that involves a lot of random wind milling motions).

Ethan, taking Benji’s re-emergence into the lands of the fully conscious in stride, only spares him a short glance, then stabs a finger in Brandt’s direction while nodding emphatically. Brandt shakes his head with a dubious expression. Benji watches in fascination as Ethan throws up his hands in the universal sign for _I give up_ , reaches past Benji to grip Brandt’s shirt collar and pulls the other man forward.

Benji’s eyes are about to pop out of his head because now Ethan and Brandt are kissing _right in front of his nose_ and the half of Ethan’s face Benji can make out somehow manages to look smug while Brandt is flailing weakly, never mind that this is clearly all of his dreams come true. A moment later that fact seems to register for him too because Brandt stills and, impossibly, leans further into the kiss.

And then noises happen that Benji would’ve been fine _not_ hearing, thanks guys.

In the front, having witnessed developments in the rear mirror, Luther sighs explosively. Benji starts giggling (and he’d swear in court that it’s sheer self-defence at work because someone has to remind those idiots that they’ve got an audience), and only stops when Brandt kicks him in the shin. Gently, of course, because Benji is fragile right now. Very fragile – in fact, so fragile that Ethan wouldn’t exact revenge for him snapping a picture of him and Brandt slobbering all over each other.

Right?


End file.
